On the same night that Viora achieved the first step of Mushin, a ghost wandered aimlessly through the shadowed streets. His large afro swayed slightly in the cool night breeze, and the black leather clothes he wore creaked faintly with each step. Resting on his shoulder was a simple wooden staff, an instrument that carried the weight of his journey. This was Umeboshi Tatsunosuke.
Even after spending hours at the bar, drowning his thoughts in the company of strangers, his mood remained sour. The memory of the hellride amusement park incident still clung to him like a dark cloud. He clenched his jaw, feeling a deep sense of inadequacy gnawing at his core. Despite his strength—greater than most living or dead—he couldn't shake the feeling of powerlessness. It was a burden he'd carried all his life, and now, even in death, it remained. No matter how far he walked, the weight refused to lift.
Tatsunosuke stopped abruptly, his frustration boiling over. He clenched his fist tightly, knuckles whitening, and without thinking, he swung his hand into a nearby wall. The impact sent a deep crack splintering across the surface. Dust and bits of stone crumbled to the ground, but he didn't flinch.
Breathing heavily, he whispered to himself, his voice low and trembling with anger and regret.
"Is… is it my destiny to be looked down on? To be weak?" His voice caught in his throat. "I'm a fool… I ruined my life."
He lowered his gaze, staring at the cracks in the wall as if they mirrored the fractures in his soul. His grip on the staff tightened as he continued, words spilling out like a confession to no one in particular.
"I've spent so much time as a ghost… I started to believe I hadn't ruined my life at all. But she—" He paused, swallowing hard, the memory of her piercing through his thoughts. "She forced me to remember everything. Everything I tried to forget… all the things I left behind."
His voice grew softer, tinged with bitterness and sorrow.
"All those memories I was forced to relive… they crushed me. I've been dead so long I actually started to believe I chose this fate. But I didn't. I ran. I left behind two of my most precious treasures when I promised them both I'd always be there for them."
His hands trembled as he gritted his teeth. The weight of his regret pressed heavily on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
"I want to be reborn…"
The words hung in the air like a plea—a desperate wish whispered into the night.
The sound of footsteps echoed softly down the empty street, steady and deliberate. Tatsunosuke tensed, lifting his head as the quiet night air carried a voice—old and calm, yet sharp enough to cut through his thoughts.
"To die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death and fanaticism. But there is no shame in this…"
The voice paused, the weight of its words settling over the silence.
"That's a quote from one of my favorite books." The figure's steps slowed, coming to a stop just beyond the cracked wall. "I heard your cries, ghost. But why do you carry such shame over how you died?"
Tatsunosuke turned slowly, eyes narrowing as he searched the shadows for the speaker. The figure remained just out of reach of the dim streetlights, his form obscured by darkness.
The voice spoke again, softer this time, as if offering a truth Tatsunosuke had long refused to accept.
"No one has power over when or where they die. So why do you bear the weight of a fate that was never in your hands?"
From the shadows stepped a man—a pale, weathered figure with long, unkempt hair and a scruffy beard. His face was gaunt, but there was a peculiar sharpness to his eyes that betrayed a mind far from feeble. He wore a red winter hat pulled low over his head and thick, worn winter clothes that looked more suited for a bitter storm than the cool night air.
Yes, he was old, but not ancient. Perhaps in his late fifties, with the look of someone who had weathered countless seasons of hardship.
Tatsunosuke let out a bitter laugh, his grip on his staff tightening until his knuckles turned white. His cold eyes met the man's gaze, filled with disdain and frustration.
"I don't have time for your nonsense." His voice was low and menacing. "I'm in a bad mood, old hag… so I'll use you to calm my rage!"
Without warning, Tatsunosuke lunged, swinging his wooden staff with astonishing speed. The force of his strike sliced through the air, faster than a bullet. It seemed that the hellride amusement park incident had pushed him to new heights—his spiritual power had grown, whether he realized it or not.
But before the staff could connect, the old man leapt gracefully into the air, landing atop the staff itself with perfect balance, as if he weighed no more than a feather.
He grinned down at Tatsunosuke with a mocking expression, his tone laced with amusement.
"If you focus only on the target in front of you, without first turning your gaze inward, how do you expect to find the strength to fight anything beyond yourself?"
The man tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with quiet wisdom.
"Foolish. Truly foolish."
Tatsunosuke swung his staff again, this time with even greater force. The old man was agile, however, landing gracefully on the ground, unfazed by the attack. Tatsunosuke's expression twisted into a wicked, angry smile.
"Another bastard lecturing me…" he muttered, barely holding back his fury.
With a burst of speed, he dashed forward, his movements a blur. In an instant, he began sending his staff flying in every direction, each strike aimed at the old man. But the man—eyes closed—dodged every blow without even breaking a sweat.
Tatsunosuke's anger flared.
This bastard is mocking me!
In a fit of rage, he swung his staff at the man's neck. But to his shock, the old man casually caught it with a single finger. The collision produced a sharp, resounding noise that reverberated through the night air.
Tatsunosuke's eyes widened as a realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.
I can't move it… He's strong!
He tried to pull his staff back, but it wouldn't budge. The old man sighed, his calm demeanor unshaken.
"You should not swing something as beautiful as a bō like a mindless stick, hoping to beat your opponent to death." His voice was steady, almost formal. "Before anything else, martial art is an art. An act of intentional practice, requiring effort and technique."
The man's eyes flicked open, locking with Tatsunosuke's.
"Your art should be an expression of your mind, but if you cannot learn Zen, if you cannot focus your will, then your staff will never reach me."
With a swift, decisive motion, the old man shoved the staff violently, causing Tatsunosuke—still gripping it with all his strength—to be pulled forward. The force of the movement sent him hurtling toward the old man at breakneck speed.
Before Tatsunosuke could react, the old man simply extended his hand and gently punched him in the face.
The strike was so light, yet it sent Tatsunosuke crashing to the ground, unconscious in an instant.
The old man stood over him, looking down with a mixture of pity and quiet resolve.
"If you wish to reach Satori... then please, stay lost, ghost."
***
The morning sun streamed through the window, its warm light spilling across the room. The gentle sound of birds singing outside floated through the air. Viora, her body wrapped in bandages, lay in the bed, still half asleep.
Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. She shot up in a panic, her heart racing.
"I'm not in my bed?!" she gasped, her voice tinged with embarrassment.
Her hands flew to her face, covering her flushed cheeks as she tried to gather her thoughts.
I... I stayed here last night because I passed out… I slept in a boy's home…
Her mind raced, her heart thumping in her chest. She couldn't remember much from the night before, but the reality of the situation hit her all at once.
She slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing up with a soft wince from her injuries. Viora took a deep breath and walked toward the door, trying to steady herself. She reached for the door handle, her hand trembling slightly as she prepared to face whatever came next.
Viora hesitated for a moment before opening the door, only to be pulled off balance. She stumbled forward, and before she could catch herself, she fell into something soft.
She blinked in surprise, her mind still foggy. As she slowly rose, she found herself face-to-face with Gwishin Doumi.
Gwishin's calm, almost amused expression met her eyes as she gently helped Viora to her feet.
"Are you sure you want to get up this early, Viora?" Gwishin asked in her usual tone, cool and unaffected. "You still need to recover."
Viora smiled nervously, her cheeks still warm with embarrassment. "Hello... Master. I didn't mean to stay the night... so I'm going home..."
Before Gwishin could respond, a voice echoed from the hallway—a boy's voice, calm and somewhat amused.
"You don't have to," the voice called out. "Sometime during the night, your foster parent came to check on you. Since it was late, she agreed for you to stay for the week... so don't worry."
Gwishin nodded, a gentle smile on her face. "Your foster parent also said she would bring you clothing sometime during the day, so you don't have to worry about that, Viora. Now come, you must be hungry after sleeping so much."
Still blushing, Viora muttered in a low voice, "Alright..."
They made their way downstairs, and as they reached the staircase, they saw Cyrus standing there. When he spotted Viora, he nodded quietly.
"Good morning," he said in a low voice.
Viora hesitated for a moment before responding. "Good morning..."
Gwishin watched the interaction with a keen eye, and after a while, Viora noticed. Embarrassed, she asked, "Wh... What? Why are you staring at me?"
Gwishin placed a hand on Viora's forehead, her expression as calm as ever. "I just noticed that your face is unusually red. Are you sick, perhaps?"
Viora's face turned even redder as she exclaimed, "I'm not! I'm—"
Gwishin tilted her head, a slight smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "You said you're not, but you're acting like you are... You're contradicting yourself."
Viora stammered in embarrassment. "I-I'm just embarrassed... that I slept in someone else's bed without realizing it, that's all..."
Cyrus sighed from the stairs, his tone a little annoyed as he made his way down. "It's really not that big of a deal. I mean, isn't it normal for friends to sleep at each other's houses? Just get over it."
Viora's face, a mix of pink and red, grew even warmer as she fumbled with her words. "Sh... Shut up, Cyrus! Silly... you're such a dummy! Gosh, sometimes I wonder if you even like me being around!"
As Gwishin continued down the stairs, her black robe flowing with each step, she spoke with a soft, knowing tone. "Trust me, Viora... He enjoys you being around more than he lets on."
She smiled gently, her words carrying a certain warmth as she added, "Cyrus truly appreciates the bond you've made with him."
By the time Gwishin was out of sight, Viora, still gripping the stair railing, thought to herself, She... didn't add the 'master' before his name...
chapter sixty-two end